


Peachy Keen

by goldfishspleen



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Introspection, M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishspleen/pseuds/goldfishspleen
Summary: Wade takes a bath and thinks about his current situation. (His current situation is pain.)





	Peachy Keen

**Author's Note:**

> So this is pain vent fic and it may be a little hard to follow because of the stream of consciousness type deal, but let me know what you think.

So it goes like this, right?

 

You have a rough day. Not emotionally or whatever. That's all peachy keen. You just over strained yourself and your body’s playing catch up. Gotta heal after all the fucked up shit that happened to your insides. Broken bones are all healed up, but your goddamn muscles are on fire.

 

So, you decide to take a hot bath. You got bath oil shit that makes it (the bath) all minty and eucalyptusy. Olfactory therapy and all that. Olifactory? Olfactory. O l f a c t o r y. Old factory?

 

ANYWAY. It ain't epsom salt ‘cause epsom salt stings like a mother fucker on open wounds, and you aren't too peachy keen on that. Add pain to pain to pain, boys and girls, and what do you get? 

 

You don't know. You failed math. Probably. You assume. You can't really remember. It gets a little fuzzy before the medical equipment and the screaming. (It doesn't sound like it's coming from you, but it's your voice, so it must be.) You're pretty sure you failed because your ability with math sure sucks now, and you don't know shit on quantifying pain.

 

Pain to you is kinda like time to a time traveller. What's the future like? Which future? What's the past like? Which past? 

 

He uses his telepathy to dull the pain while the tk keeps the aggressive space metal parasite cancer at bay, he tells you over the bottle of beer you gave him. You hate everything about what he just said, and he has the nerve to say it in your own home over your beer. 

 

You tell him he should give you the name of the doctor that prescribed that pain management plan. You switch topics to your idea for tasteful superhero pornography because being genuine fucking sucks. Plus, you're pretty tired of trying to get him to truly understand you while he's fucking that over glorified secretary bitch. Being the Other Woman isn't as sexy as you thought it would be. You don't love him. You just want respect. You don't love him. He sighs and that big half t.o. mesh chest heaves. You want to lick the spot where flesh meets mesh. You wonder what that feels like for him.

 

Is it vanilla pain? Chocolate pain? Pistachio pain? Everyone focuses on the skin. You don't blame them. It looks like it's constantly in a state of peeling off in steak size chunks. That's never happened but it looks like it. And yeah, yeah, skin cancer is a bitch, but you don't just have skin cancer. The internal shit is pretty wild. Why concentrate on just one thing when you have liver cancer, stomach cancer, brain cancer, and goddamn bone fuck cancer? Everyone should just take a moment to google image bone cancer if they want to successfully tank their day. You know. You've tried it. 

 

The menthol makes the bath feel cold even though it's steaming. It's like if icy hot was a bath. You're sweating, but you feel cold. You take a swig of your canned peach ice tea. You're thinking a lot about peaches. You got peach rings too. It's symbolism. A theme. A running gag just for you because no one else can see it. 

 

“How are you doing, Wade?”

 

“Peachy keen.”

 

Everything's all peachy in the bath.

 

In the bed, you swear upon your sixteen goddamn zillionth time rolling over and finding yourself just as uncomfortable as you were in the last position. The bed that normally feels like it's swallowing you whole in foamy softness is now more like a lumpy rock. It's been 3 hours of this. Peter groggily puts an arm around you, and you stiffen.

 

“Sorry, babe,” you whisper.

 

“S’fine” His eyes are closed.

 

You don't know why you say it. “Hurts like a motherfucker tonight.”

 

“M’sorry…” Peter says, sounding genuinely sorry despite still not having opened his eyes.

 

A beat.

 

You frown. 

 

“Don't.”

 

Peter rolls over and goes back to sleep. You glare at the back of his head until finally deciding to get up. 

 

You go into the living room and start flicking through the channels on the tv. It's like the good old days of your solitary insomnia exploits watching reruns of the Golden Girls until infomercial ‘o clock. Was this even still a relatable thing? You had fallen behind on cable insomnia watching since subscription services started ruling the world. 

 

You bend your legs and let the upper body sink further into the water until it reaches your ears. Thinking about Peter makes you sad… angry… frustrated… He never looks at you differently. It's just that goddamn tone of voice that makes your skin crawl in the worst way.

 

You hate pity. You've always hated pity. It makes you want to break a great many things. You pop a peach ring in your mouth and chew angrily. It sounds weird with your ears partially submerged.

 

Peachy. Peachy, peachy, peachy.

 

Peachy like the day your mom flatlined, anyway.

 

You sometimes tell people when it hurts, but not because you're opening up to them. At least, not really. It's almost like a challenge, a test, an effort to repel them by trying to make them as uncomfortable as emotionally possible. You shrugged off any attempts for real human connection, favoring a persona that seems completely unfazed by pain. Your over $300 worth collection of ice packs would beg to differ.

 

Peter's not an idiot. He knows it's mentally taxing to be in pain all the time. But anytime he tries to show you genuine sympathy, you freak the fuck out. Not really externally--more internally. You do tend start fights at that point. You don't know why it makes you so angry.

 

Al’s words always calm you down. She pats your head on her lap as you fucking cry like a newborn infant. You don't really get the dynamic you two have. You don't really overthink it. Mostly you two talk shit, but she's always there in times like this. She's always gentle when you can't take the burning and the aching and the stabbing anymore. You let yourself… be vulnerable… for a moment…

 

You pop another peach ring in your mouth. You know you need to apologize to Peter, but you don't want to. He didn't do anything wrong. It's just that you're wrong. This is wrong.

 

Chew, crack. Chew, crack.

 

Your jaw pops with each bite. It sounds so loud being so close to your ears. You wonder if someone from across the room would be able to hear it.

 

You sit up and wash down the sugary mush with more tea.

 

You roll your shoulders before slipping back down into the water.


End file.
